


this won't end quietly

by Rena



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/F, M/M, Slow Burn, a tiny bit of angst with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:13:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: When Saw tells her, she nearly laughs in his face. Not because she thinks he is joking but at her own naivety. After everyhing she's lost, everything she's given for his cause, she didn't think there was anything left for her to lose. She was wrong. Of course she was wrong.Her skin is lined with the scars of his battles, used for his cause in every way but one. And now he wants the rest of it. Like her body is a mere bargaining chip in a game of chess. In the grand scheme of things, she supposes, her freedom of choice doesn't matter. It's such an inconsequential thing. Her freedom for a chance at the world's.





	1. Chapter 1

When Saw tells her, she nearly laughs in his face. Not because she thinks he is joking - everyone knows Saw Gerrera doesn’t joke, and no one knows it better than Jyn - but at her own naivety. After watching her mother die violently and her seeing her father defeated and taken hostage, after losing her home and then the last shreds of her innocence, becoming Saw Gerrera’s ward and taking up his fight, she didn’t think there was anything left for her to lose.

Turns out she was wrong. Of course she was. There is always one more thing to give. Always one more thing he asks for. One more thing to sacrifice for the rebellion.

“Well,” she says, once he’s finished explaining - briefing her, really, no shred of emotion to it - and she’s taken a second to swallow the bile rising up in her throat, the fury thrumming behind her teeth, “I suppose I should have figured you would expect this of me one day.”

“You -”

“Don’t,” she cuts him off. She won’t allow him to pretend he is offering her a choice, that he is asking instead of ordering. Saw Gerrera is a great many things, but a liar is not one of them. Not a good one, anyway. Especially when it’s about comfort.  

And there it is, the flash of guilt ghosting over his face, gone in a second before he buries it somewhere deep, along with his integrity.

She wants to scream at him. _I’ve given you everything. My obedience. My conviction. My loyalty. My love, my foolish childish adoration. My childhood. My soul._

Her body, thrown into the fight when she should have been playing innocent games, lined with the scars of his battles, used for his cause in every way but one. And now, he wants the rest of it. Like her body is a mere bargaining chip in a game of chess. It is, for him, probably. In the grand scheme of things, she supposes, being allowed to make her own choices doesn’t matter. It’s such an inconsequential thing. Her freedom for a chance at the world’s.

Giving her life for the rebellion seemed much easier when it was death that awaited her in exchange for the people being liberated from the Empire’s tyranny, not a lifelong cage.

“It needs to be you,” he says. “If they want to double cross me. It needs to be you, at their centre, keeping an eye on things. Warning me.”

“Of course.”

“You will be safe there.”

She does laugh, then, short and bitter. Safe, bound to someone else. Away from the battlefields for the first time, far from the carnage and bloodshed, yes, but in the hands of a man she’s never met. It’s a ludicrous thought, even though she’s quite capable of slitting the throat of anyone who might dare lay a hand on her. “There isn’t a corner in this galaxy that is safe,” she says and stands, tucks her shirt back in where it’s slipped out of her fatigues. “When?”

“Three days from now, on Yavin.”

She nods, sharp. “I’ll go pack.”

 

* * *

 

Yavin is hot and sweltry, a stark contrast to the biting cold in the deserts of Jedha. A tall woman, dressed in a flowing white garb, is awaiting her when she gets off the ship, standing tall and regal in the midst of the hubbub. The leader of the Alliance, in the flesh. Jyn looks down at herself; at Bodhi’s insistence, she has made an effort to clean up, but even her best clothes are worn and dirty, utilitarian. It suits her just fine, but she wonders, for a moment, about the impression she makes. If the Alliance will treat her with scorn, think her not worth the effort, after all. She can almost hear the voices: _Is this all the Partisans can offer? A scrappy, dirty little orphan, damaged goods, and a few practically suicidal fighters on a strategically important moon? What a terrible trade!_

“Jyn Erso,” the woman greets her. Her voice is warm, flowy like her dress. It’s disquieting. “Welcome to Yavin.”

“Mon Mothma,” Jyn replies. “It’s an honour.”

Mon Mothma smiles as if she knows that the lie scraped like sandpaper on her tongue. “Come,” she says, “I will show you to your rooms.”

“My pilot will need quarters as well.”

The woman doesn’t blink. “Of course. I will have some prepared for him.” She pauses delicately. “I’m assuming your warden will not be attending the ceremony?”

“He is busy,” Jyn says shortly.

“I expected as much. It’s a shame. I would have liked to speak with him in person.”

Jyn shrugs. “The deal is done. If you want to send him a message, send one with Bodhi when he returns.”

“Very well.” Mon Mothma shakes her head, hesitates. “I’m aware it is not a conventional thing to do, what we are asking of you,” she says.

“On the contrary,” Jyn replies. “It’s entirely conventional.”

Or it was, hundreds of years ago, when sealing contracts by marriage was still common. She didn’t think the Alliance would consider such an outdated practice even with their desperation to get the Partisans on their side. She certainly didn’t expect Saw Gerrera to accept.

“Still, I thought he might want to attend his daughter’s wedding.”

“I’m not his daughter,” Jyn says coolly. She doesn’t say _this wedding is barely worthy of the name._

“You may as well be. He raised you, did he not?”

“He did.” Jyn looks around, taking in everything she can see, trying to commit it to memory. Knowing your escape routes is vital. That was one of the first lessons she learnt, with Saw. “Will I be marrying your son, then?”

Now, Mon Mothma seems startled. “They didn’t tell you?”  A displeased frown tugs at the corner of her mouth when Jyn shakes her head. “I was led to believe you had agreed to this.”

“I did,” Jyn says. Mon Mothma doesn’t need to know that agreeing is a relative term in this scenario.

“And yet they didn’t feel the need to inform you -”

“I didn’t ask.” It is very likely considered rude to interrupt the de facto leader of the Alliance, but if Jyn has to listen to one more reason to criticise the Partisans, she is going to scream. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t it?” Mon Mothma asks calmly.

“No,” Jyn says. “It’s for the rebellion. If this pact leads to the downfall of the Empire, then there is no justification for me to ruin it based on inconsequential standards such as age or looks.”

She feels the woman’s assessing gaze on her, and forces herself to appear casual, unfazed.

“You may claim to not be his daughter,” Mothma begins, “but you do get your devotion from him.”

She has nothing to respond to that, not unless she protests, and telling this strange woman about her mother, about her devotion to her husband that cost her her life, is not something she wants to do.

“For your information,” Mothma continues once it becomes clear that Jyn is not going to react to the gentle prodding, “I don’t have children. When the idea was first brought up, it was considered crucial that you be married to one of our highest ranking officers. Saw Gerrera was quite insistent on it, and I understand; if he gave us someone so special to him, we would have to give someone special to us.” She mercifully ignores Jyn’s derisive snort. “It was first discussed that you should marry General Draven. You’ll be glad to hear I vetoed that suggestion.”

“Why?”

“I said someone closer to your age would be more appropriate, but really, I figured you would only end up killing each other.” There’s amusement in Mon Mothma’s voice. “And that wouldn’t help anyone.”

“Who’s the unlucky fella, then?”

“Captain Cassian Andor. Rebel Intelligence. You can meet him tomorrow, if you like. He’s scheduled to return from a mission later tonight.”

“He doesn’t know?” Jyn asks. That seems strange, given Mothma’s insistence on making sure Jyn wasn’t here against her will - at least not openly.

“He knows,” Mon Mothma assures her. ”Ah, here we are.” She gestures towards the door on their right. “For now, the door code is your birthday, but you can change it anytime.”

Jyn forces a smile.  It’s not like this will be her room for long; two days from now, she will be expected to share quarters with her husband. Cassian Andor, the husband. The stranger. “Thank you.”

“Miss Erso,” Mon Mothma calls out before she can vanish through the door.

“Jyn’s fine.”

“Jyn, then. I know this is a difficult situation for you.” She pauses delicately. “I don’t have a son,” Mon Mothma says slowly, “but if I did, I would hope they would turn out like Captain Andor. He’s an honourable man. You need not be afraid of him.”

Jyn hasn’t been afraid of any man but the one in white who haunts her dreams in years. Not since she was ten, and Saw taught her how to slide a blade between the ribs, how to strike the kidneys. She doesn't think she should tell Mon Mothma that, though. If she thinks that Jyn is quiet and shy, easily frightened, guileless, then it will be easier to gather information, to report back to Saw. “Thank you,” she says again, stupidly.

“And I hope you won’t use that vibroblade in your boots against him,” Mon Mothma adds with a smile, as she turns to walk away. “Frankly, I’d save it for that droid of his, if it wasn’t a guarantee to make him very cranky.”

Jyn freezes. The senator is more observant than she gave credit for. “The droid or Captain Andor?” she calls after her, determined not to show that the conversation has rattled her..

Mon Mothma’s laughter rings through the hallway, clear as a bell.

 

* * *

 

Bodhi slips into her quarters late at night, when the base is fast asleep; no more sounds of people hurrying through the wide corridors, no more droids beeping in complaint, no more flurry of activity. It’s eerily silent outside, like the jungle is too heavy even for animals to make sounds.

“I saw him,” Bodhi says, quiet and rushed, almost tripping over the words. “I - sorry, did I wake you?”

Jyn shakes her head. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“I figured.” He joins her on the narrow cot, staring out the tiny window into the darkness. “You should, though. Get some sleep.”

Jyn hums, non-committal.

“Aren’t you going to ask about him?” Bodhi asks.

“Why? I’ll see him tomorrow.” She’d rather not see him then, either. Every minute spent with him before her wedding, before she absolutely has to, is one too many.

Next to her, Bodhi fidgets. She sighs. “Fine. Tell me about him.”

A beat. “He looked like you,” Bodhi says finally.

“What do you mean?”

“Young, but also...not? Tired. Like he’s seen too much. Like he wants it to stop. Like he doesn’t know who to trust.” He pauses. “He has an Imperial droid. KX-series.”

A security droid. Jyn blinks. “Mon Mothma warned me about the droid,” she says. “Is he -”

“Fully reprogrammed, as far as I could tell. Fond of the Captain - he was teasing him. Not so fond of the idea of you, from what I could tell.”

Jyn raises her eyebrows. “How so?”

“He said it was stupid of the Captain to come back in time. That he should have waited for the Alliance to marry you off to someone else. That he could have performed some minor sabotage to the ship, to spare the Captain the trouble.”

“Well,” Jyn says. “He’s right. It would have been smarter.”

“The Captain didn’t seem to think so.”

“Like I said. Stupid.”

“You could have run, too,” Bodhi reminds her. “I would’ve taken you anywhere you asked. But you are here, too.”

“Yeah, well.” Jyn clenches her fist in the bedsheets, feels the rough texture of them grate against her skin. “Guess we are both stupid.”

She’s grateful for the offer, though. She knows it still stands; if she asked him, he’d take her off planet tonight. Anyplace. Anytime. Out of all the people she met during her time with the Partisans, she’s known Bodhi the shortest. And yet, she thinks she’s the only one of them she could truly rely on.

He sits with her in the dark, in complete silence, until he falls asleep, and she’s grateful for that, too.

 

* * *

 

Cassian Andor comes to introduce himself bright and early the next day, like he didn’t arrive halfway through the night. Bodhi bumps into him as he’s leaving, having promised to hunt down some breakfast for the both of them.

“Oh,” Bodhi says, awkwardly. “Hello.”

“Hello.” The voice is calm, measured. Clearly audible through the half-open door. An accent she’s not quite able to place. Somewhere from the Outer Rim territories, most likely. If he’s surprised or angered to find an unknown man exiting the quarters of his soon-to-be wife, he doesn’t show it. “I’m Cassian Andor.”

“Oh, I - I know. Bodhi Rook. I’m - I’m the pilot.” Bodhi clears his throat. “Jyn’s awake, if you - if you wanted to talk to her.”

“Right. Thank you.”

Bodhi pauses for a moment, before he moves to clear the way. “Be kind to her,” he says.

This does seem to catch the Captain by surprise, if his silence is anything to go by. “Of course,” he answers belatedly.

Jyn stands, draws herself up to her full height; he still towers over her when he steps into her room, nearly a head taller than her, but she feels safer that way. More in control of this situation that is absolutely out of her hands. “Captain Andor,” she greets him coolly.

“Miss Erso,” he replies, stiff, stilted.

He doesn’t size her up the way she does; he must have had a file on her to read, some information given to him beforehand. He’s handsome, she supposes, or would be, if some of his personality showed on his face, but his features are carefully blank. The only thing he gives away is not by will but by accident - she can see the weariness that Bodhi spoke of in the lines around his eyes. They are well hidden, but she sees them, because she knows them. She sees them on her face every time she looks in a mirror.

The silence stretches, uncomfortable. “I suppose we should...talk,” he offers, cautiously.

Jyn can feel his reluctance and wonders. Spies are supposed to be better at small talk than this. Better at making their marks feel safe, drawing them into their net. It’s a concession, she thinks, that he doesn’t try it with her. She doesn’t know whether to be grateful for his disinterest or annoyed by it.

She shrugs. “What is there to say?” she asks.

“We are to get married tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “Till death do us part. That’s quite enough time to get to know each other, don’t you think?”

Something flickers across his face. “You don’t have to -”

“You know I do,” she cuts him off. “I have to, just like you.”

His jaw clenches, just a bit. She’d have missed it had she not studied him closely. “Very well.” He nods. “I will see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes,” she says, “tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Their weddings is not a quiet affair, there’s too many people attending for that - staring, gaping, not celebrating, not really; not happy for them but the booze the official reception promises -  but it’s an unemotional one. Matter-of-fact. Almost sterile. He says his vows and she says hers, and he slides a ring on her finger and gives her a kiss that’s barely worthy of the name, and that’s it. An alliance made, set in stone, carved into both their bodies.

Her life, for a continuing stream of supplies the Partisans so urgently need, weapons and medicine and food, and back-up, if they need it.

His, for increased numbers, and information, and a vague promise to fall in line with the Alliance’s more moderate tactics.

Jyn looks at him, and tries to feel anything at all.

 

* * *

 

“They are sending me out on another assignment,” Cassian tells her on their way to their new room.

Both their effects, they’ve been told, have already been brought there. Into nicer, bigger quarters, the young girl relaying the information had told them, strangely excitedly, bubbly. Completely missing the way both Jyn and Cassian had tensed at the thought of someone going through their meager belongings. One more thing, Jyn thinks wryly, that they have in common. Maybe one day she’ll need the fingers of her second hand to count those.

“Short honeymoon,” she remarks, deadpan.

The look he flashes her tells her he doesn’t appreciate the humour.

They’ve split early from the party, neither of them in the mood to pretend to be merry. Cassian, it seems, is not the type to drown his sorrows. Jyn might have drunk herself stupid, had she not thought it might reflect badly on the Partisans, on the treaty. If Cassian’s playing the part of the dutiful husband, then she won’t show how much she hates it. That doesn’t mean she can’t secretly wish for moonshine strong enough to blow her brain cells into the ether.

He steps into their new room and stops so abruptly that Jyn nearly barrels into him. It only takes her a second to understand why.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says gruffly, after just a moment’s pause, and a tiny part of Jyn relaxes. She thinks she could take him in a fight, probably, but. But.

She really hopes she won’t have to.

Cassian notices her hesitation. “I would never -” he says haltingly. “I don’t - expect this of you. I wouldn’t - I won’t.”

“Well,” Jyn says. “That’s good to know.”

“I know we are...bound, legally. But I won’t hold you to those vows. I know you do not wish to be here. If you meet someone - I won’t stand in your way.”

“Oh. Right.” She clears her throat. “Same. You can be with other people. I won’t mind.”

“Good.”

“Good,” she echoes.  

He does take the floor that night, even though she offers him the bed in a strange fit of courtesy, arguing that he will only be able to relish in sleeping in a proper bed for a few nights before his mission takes him Force knows where, whereas she’s bound to be staying on base for the foreseeable future. He insists, though. She can see what Mon Mothma meant when she called him honourable.

Jyn prefers to call it foolishly stubborn, but it’s not like she’s the best person to judge.

The mattress is softer than anything she’s slept on as long as she can remember. She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling, listening to Cassian’s breathing, too even to be anything but carefully measured, and doesn’t sleep a wink.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Meeting K-2SO is...well, it’s an experience.

“Jyn Erso,” the droid says. “You are smaller than I expected, even for a weak humanoid.” Somehow, the flat, mechanical voice is dripping with disdain.

“Charming,” Jyn comments dryly.

“Don’t mind him,” Cassian says. “Politeness isn’t his forte. K2 tends to say whatever comes into his circuits. It’s a side effect of the reprogramming, he can’t control it.”

“Excuse me,” K2 says, offended. “I am perfectly able to control my speech patterns. I was merely stating my opinion bluntly, which is exactly what I intended to do.”

“Well, this may surprise you, but not everyone cares about what seven feet of scrap metal have to say,” Jyn remarks, raising her eyebrows at the insolent droid in warning. “In fact, some people might feel inclined to respond in kind, and then you might end up with a blaster hole in your main circuits, which is exactly what they intended.”

K-2SO huffs. “You are a very violent individual. I could tell from your files; this is why I told Cassian that marrying you was a bad idea. You are not well-suited for teamwork, nor do you care to fit in with the Alliance. Judging by your physical appearance as well as your psychological evaluation, you neither can nor want to provide the support Cassian needs.” He pauses for a moment. “Luckily, he won’t have to rely on you, since he has me.”

“Guess we both drew the short straw, then,” Jyn replies, shrugging nonchalantly. The droid’s assessment rankles her a little, but Saw trained her too well to let her emotions show.

Across from her, Cassian hides his snort behind a cup of caf.

“I can’t help but notice you weren’t at the ceremony,” Jyn points out.

“It was a stupid idea,” K-2SO says. “And your human rituals are equally nonsensical. Why would my presence be required?”

“I’m just saying. It doesn’t seem particularly supportive to me,” Jyn continues. A little jab she can’t help but make.

“We need to get to the briefing room. Come on, Kay.” Cassian cuts into their conversation before the droid can answer.

It’s probably a good thing; K-2SO was clearly gearing up for a rather vicious comeback, and no matter how much Jyn might have enjoyed the verbal sparring, she would have been equally as likely to have a violent outburst, and it’s probably not a good idea to harm her new the annoying but obviously beloved droid. She could take her husband in a fight, she thinks, maybe. But there is no guarantee for how long they will have to live with each other. The lives they lead, it might be a week before one of them dies, or a month, a year. A decade. Who knows how long this war will last, how long the fragile bond between the Alliance and the Partisans will be only held together by the brittle thread between them, two digital fingerprints and scrawled signatures preserved on a holo somewhere, the legal document the only reason for them to be in each other’s orbit.

She hates him a little, for marrying her. She hates herself a little, too. And Saw Gerrera and Mon Mothma, and everyone who agreed to it.

But Jyn knows she can’t go on that way. Can’t spend the rest of her life hating Cassian Andor, not when it might last a long time, still. She needs to preserve her energy for the fight that lies ahead of them, and behind them, and all around them; hating him when she needs to channel all her rage against the Empire seems like a waste of strength.

If they can manage to keep up the polite indifference they have been treating each other with for the first days of their marriage, then it’s really all she can ask for.

She hasn’t seen much of her new husband in the two days since she first met him; she’d pretended to be asleep when he got up after their wedding night, while he used the fresher, until he stepped out of the room. She knows he didn’t buy her act, but she didn’t need him to; she just needed to avoid the awkwardness, as did he. She didn’t see him at all that day, as he was swept up in briefing after briefing and she was left to wander the labyrinthine tunnels of the base until she had memorised every twist and turn.

Jyn doesn’t quite know why he sought her out as she was waiting in line for her breakfast - a bowl of unidentifiable, tasteless brown mush - doesn’t know if he was ordered to make nice, to try and build a relationship to tighten her bond with the Alliance, doesn’t know whether his honour or masochistic tendencies dictated it. He doesn’t seem the sentimental type, the one who’d actually care just because. She’d gone through his belongings earlier and found nothing to even hint at his personality; everything was utilitarian, unemotional, the picture of a man entirely unattached to anything but the cause.

Cassian Andor, she thinks, was truly the perfect choice for this mission.

“Will you be alright?” he asks even as he stands, but before he turns to leave. He even makes it sound like a sincere inquiry.

“Of course,” Jyn says. “I know my way around.”

Cassian looks at her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable, before he nods and leaves, K2 in tow.

He doesn’t return to their room that night, having left on his mission without saying goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Saying goodbye to Bodhi is infinitely harder than she imagined.

He hugs her very tight, and she clutches him right back, like if she presses him to her hard enough, she can keep a little piece of home with her. Bodhi doesn’t comment on the desperation in her embrace, or the way she trembles, and Jyn is thankful for that, too. She doesn’t think she’ll ever stop being thankful for every little thing Bodhi does.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises, although it is not his promise to make. He is counting on Saw deeming him trustworthy enough to go back and forth between Jedha and Yavin IV, carrying supplies and messages without giving too much of the Partisan’s plans away, and that hope is solely build on the fact that Jyn trusts Bodhi, and that her trust and friendship might inspire Saw to feel the same. In truth, Saw is equally as likely to consider their friendship a distraction, a liability, to keep Bodhi from seeing her again.

But he allowed Bodhi to drop her off, to stay for the wedding, so. Jyn hopes.

“Do you want me to tell him anything?” Bodhi asks.

Jyn shakes her head. She has nothing to tell Saw Gerrera, not yet; nothing that Bodhi couldn’t tell him, anyway.

Bodhi nods, draws in a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“Take care,” Jyn says. Her voice doesn’t crack.

“You too,” he says. “I’ll see you soon,” he repeats, turns to walk away. He doesn’t make it three steps before he whirls around again. “You’ll be alright, though, won’t you?”

“Always am,” Jyn replies. “You know me. I’m tough to kill.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” She cracks a smile. “I’ll be okay.”

“But if you’re not…”

“I know,” she says. “I know. Thank you.”

He nods again, and then turns sharply and stumbles onto the ship as quickly as he can. Like he might not leave at all if he took one more second to think about it.

Jyn knows exactly how he feels.

 

* * *

 

It takes three more days of sitting on her ass, twiddling her thumbs, exploring the base but being generally useless, before something in Jyn snaps. She’s never done too well with idleness.

She walks straight into the control room, to Mon Mothma, and says, “I need a job.”

Thankfully, Mon Mothma doesn’t try to protest, does not feed her some benign, vague line like Jyn would expect a politician to do. “It’s been suggested you help out in the cargo bay, organising supply shipments to and from the Partisans.” It’s obvious it’s a topic that’s been discussed before, extensively, from the sour looks exchanged between some of the council members present.

“No,” Jyn says immediately.

It’s not - it wouldn’t be the worst job she could be stuck with, she thinks. She’d have some connection to her past, some control over what they send. But she’s not cut out for it, she knows, and she’d lose her temper within a week, for sure.

Mon Mothma smiles. “I thought that might be your reaction,” she says. “Which is why I suggested you act as an advisor to the council instead. You have been to many systems; I’m sure the information you have gathered there, as well as your instincts and experience when it comes to battles, will be of greater use to everyone involved.”

“I’m not sure I’m well-suited to be stuck in a room,” Jyn replies, although she knows it’s fruitless - they won’t let her out on missions, not yet, not until they believe she will return. “I’m not particularly good at devising strategies either.”

“What are you good at, Mrs. Andor?” one of the council members, a middle-aged, sand-haired man with the insignia of a general asks, sneering.

“It’s Jyn Erso, still,” Jyn snaps. It’s probably the wrong answer to give to make them trust her, but she’s not - it’s all she has left of her father, of her mother. She can’t even imagine giving her name up freely, and she  won’t let them take that away from her forever. Not like this.

The man doesn’t blink. If anything, it seems like he expected her resistance. “What are you good at, Jyn Erso?”

Jyn smiles coolly. “Making trouble,” she says honestly.

The man’s answering smile is sardonic. “Of that,” he says, “I have no doubt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short update, but better than nothing?! I hope. The real action should kick in with the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrible at updating regularly, especially in times of great stress like I'm experiencing right now. Sorry in advance?!


End file.
